


How Unworthy a Thing You Make of Me

by Sleepswithvillains



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Body Positivity, Canon-Typical Violence, Cover Art, Digital Art, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, Gentle femdom, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Asceticism, Jedi!Quinn, Pining, Plus Size Sith Warrior, Religious Guilt, Seduction, Seduction to the Dark Side, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Sort Of, Teasing, Torture, Touch-Starved, Unflattering portrayal of Jedi extremism, religious trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepswithvillains/pseuds/Sleepswithvillains
Summary: A Jedi destroyed by passion becomes something terrible.Though more than fifteen years have passed since he was a Padawan, Jedi Knight Malavai Quinn remembers the warning Master Orgus Din gave him.But Knight Quinn was always a bit bemused by the advice—he had been called stoic, disciplined, even cold. Ever since his disgrace, he had lived a quiet life of duty, throwing himself into every mundane, trivial mission without complaint. He carefully suppressed his emotions, and while he sometimes struggled with anger, he had never been one to be tempted by the baser needs of the flesh.When he kills the son of an influential Sith Lord, Quinn finds himself caught up in a struggle for revenge and power—but he is not the only one hunting Darth Angral. Eleanora, Darth Baras’ most talented apprentice, is dispatched in pursuit of the rogue Sith Lord. Quinn becomes fixated on this Sith Warrior who interferes with his missions and dogs his heels—she challenges everything he believes in.And he finds himself wanting her.
Relationships: Malavai Quinn/Female Sith Warrior
Comments: 63
Kudos: 47





	1. Our Wills and Fates Do So Contrary Run

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back with more Nora/Quinn, hehe. This is an AU from my other fic Helplessly Hoping. It's going to be a slow burn, fall-from-grace affair and I am so very excited about it.
> 
> Comments and questions are very welcome, and you can also find me on [tumblr](https://sleepswithvillains.tumblr.com/), where I post art and WIP pieces and prompt responses! Come say hi if you want! :D
> 
> The title and chapter titles are all lines from Shakespeare--in this case, _Hamlet_.
> 
>   
>    
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn receives new orders, and an unwanted surprise. Nora and Vette head towards their new target.

“Grand Master Satele is ready for you.”

Malavai Quinn inhaled deeply, taking a few moments to hold and release the breath. He let go of his frustration and his fear along with it. What happened with Tarnis had left him unsettled, and the seemingly endless quips and chatter from Master Kiwiiks’ insufferable Padawan had left him no time to focus. She had finally gone silent once he bowed his head in meditation.

_I should be grateful for that, I suppose._

He heard the girl rise to her feet, and after another deep, calming breath, he did the same and followed her to the chamber.

“Knight Quinn,” the hologram of Grand Master Satele said, standing with her arms gripped behind her back. “You’ve ended one threat, and now we face a far greater one.”

Quinn blinked, registering the faint accusation in her words, and clenched his jaw.

“Come now, Grand Master,” General Var Suthra said, his gravelly voice dropping, “that is the darkest possible interpretation of events. The Knight saved Coruscant.” The Mon Calamarian’s nearest eye fixed on him, blinking affably. “I for one am grateful for his actions. He is not responsible for the Sith’s threats.”

“Darth Angral is not just any Sith,” Grand Master Shan said. “He led the Sack of Coruscant personally. His bloodlust is not to be underestimated. You should not have executed his son without orders.”

 _Of course. If I had managed to incapacitate him, I’m sure I would be getting admonished about not having fully eliminated the threat. The first time I see action, real action, in over a decade—of course it couldn’t come without a lecture._

Quinn bit his tongue, as was his habit, and brushed aside his frustration, letting it slip away.

“We didn’t have a choice,” a brash voice said, and Quinn turned to see Kiwiiks’ Padawan—Kira Carsen—standing behind him, facing the Grand Master. He glared at her, not surprised that she would speak out of turn but disapproving nonetheless. She ignored him and soldiered on. “Tarnis wasn’t gonna stop—he wouldn’t surrender.”

“Be that as it may,” Master Satele said, “we now have a serious situation on our hands. The stolen data files have been tracked to Ord Mantell.” Her sharp eyes watched him. “Knight Quinn, consider all your current tasks and assignments suspended. You’ll find a ship outfitted for you in the hangar bay. You’re going to Ord Mantell.”

“Surely more than one knight should be sent,” General Var Suthra said, his large amphibian eyes blinking rapidly.

“We have no other knights to spare,” Grand Master Satele said. “But you won’t be going alone.”

Quinn frowned up at the Jedi Master.

“Your new Padawan will be accompanying you,” the woman’s hologram said, glancing over at Kira.

_No._

“Grand Master,” Quinn protested, deliberately not looking at Kira, “I have _intentionally_ not taken a Padawan since my knighthood began, I—I work more efficiently alone—”

_Not her, stars, not her._

“Master Kiwiiks may not return for some time, and you need Kira’s help as much as she needs your guidance,” Grand Master Satele said, her voice even and calm. Quinn wished he felt even a fraction of that peace—panic was welling up in him, he couldn’t take an apprentice, not after—

“Grand Master Shan,” Quinn said, unwilling to back down, “when we last spoke on this topic, you _agreed_ with me that I need not—”

“That was over fifteen years ago. Circumstances have changed, Knight,” she answered, that maddening tranquility almost mocking him as he ruthlessly suppressed his own unwanted emotions. It had been the one boon they had granted him after his disgrace—the space to shoulder his burdens alone. Anger simmered low in his belly, and he unclenched his fists as he let the feeling go.

How could he teach a Padawan when he still struggled like this?

  


* * *

  


“We really have to go _now_?” Kira yawned. “It’s 3am! I’m sure it’s fine if we leave in the morning.”

Quinn huffed softly as they walked down the temple corridor, each carrying a few packs of supplies and their belongings.

“You heard the Grand Master, did you not? We were instructed to depart as soon as the ship is ready, and it is ready,” he said, keeping his voice even.

“But—”

Quinn pulled up short and held up a hand, frowning. Kira’s mouth hung open for a moment, but she followed his lead, stopping and waiting silently.

A muffled sound echoed down the corridor from the training room and he reached out with the Force—and felt the two Padawans within. This late past curfew, there was only one thing they were up to. He kept his footfalls silent as he rounded the corner into the room, and it took the two students a full second to realize he was there.

They sprang apart, hurriedly adjusting their robes—the human girl had blushed a deep red, and the Twi’lek was self-consciously stroking their lekku.

“Knight Quinn,” the girl breathed, her chest heaving, “We—it’s not what it looks like, we—”

“Spare me,” Quinn said, his eyes narrowing. “Get back to your quarters.”

Kira stepped aside to let the two pass when the Twi’lek suddenly paused in front of Quinn.

“Sir,” they said, “are—are you going to tell our masters?”

Quinn stared at them, mulling it over—he ought to inform them so their Masters could assign the proper disciplinary measures. The students clearly needed extra meditation time and guidance, if they were unable to control themselves. But they were adolescents—he supposed it was not terribly surprising.

“No,” he said, and both Padawans wilted with relief, “but listen to me. You must learn to let go of passion—you are old enough to know where it leads. It leads to depravity and _ruin_. You know what the code says, do you not?”

“There is no passion, there is serenity,” they said in unison.

“Spend three hours meditating on that,” Quinn ordered, and the Padawans slipped away.

“Yikes,” Kira said as they resumed their walk to the hangar bay.

“Do you have something to say, Padawan?” he asked in a tone meant to discourage an affirmative response.

“I mean, depravity and ruin? Assigning punishment? Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” Kira asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He turned his head towards her, and a muscle in his shoulder twitched as the fabric of his tunic brushed a particularly sensitive scar. _Hardly harsh, and hardly punishment._

“Not at all,” he answered. “We would all take care to remember that lesson.”

He had hoped that was the end of the conversation, but he reached out to the Force for patience when the red-haired girl trotted to catch up to him.

“So you’re one of the _those_ Jedi,” she said knowingly, switching her bag to her other shoulder.

“One of _what_ Jedi?” he sighed as they approached the ship.

“You know,” Kira said, hopping up onto the boarding ramp, “the ones who think that corruption comes from the body as much as the mind. I should have guessed,” she added, gesturing to his gloved hands. “We learned about the different belief systems in our lessons, but I’ve never met an Ascetic before.”

“There are fewer than there once were,” Quinn admitted, “but I was raised among many others at the Enclave. There are several Ascetic Masters here at the Tython Temple.”

It was all he had known until his own apprenticeship, and Master Orgus had accepted his beliefs—though they had entered into several philosophical debates on the topic. 

“Is it true that you don’t even eat spicy food? Because it ‘inflames the senses’?” she said, putting what she clearly thought was a humorous emphasis on the phrase.

“We refrain from everything that draws us away from the Force and anchors us in the crude matter that makes up our bodies, yes,” he said, unhappy with her tone.

Suddenly Quinn frowned.

_How did she get me to say this much?_

“Enough questions,” he said when he saw her formulating her next one. “I will remind you that attachment is forbidden to and by the Jedi, not just by my own order.”

“Yes, Master Quinn,” she answered, following him into the ship.

  


* * *

  


_There is no emotion, there is peace._

A distant _clang_ made Quinn open his eyes as a surge of irritation shot through him, interrupting his attempt to meditate for the third time. He had no idea what his apprentice was doing, but whatever it was, it appeared she had no intention of stopping. And here he had been looking forward to having his own ship. The droid didn’t bother him, but Kira had been on board for less than two hours and he was already dreaming of turning around and dropping her back at the Temple.

He sighed, releasing the feeling—purging the emotion. He would do his duty—he would set a good example for her, though he had never wanted a Padawan. He wondered if Grand Master Satele had some dislike of the girl to assign her to him. Her name would be tarnished just by association—surely Satele had to know that.

His thoughts were interrupted by a beep on his datapad. Quinn reached for it—enlightenment appeared to be getting farther away by the moment—and opened the incoming message. It had been forwarded from the Grand Master.

> Knight Quinn,
> 
> We have identified several of Angral’s apprentices—you’ve met Lord Praven via holo, I believe—but we are receiving reports that another Sith Lord has taken an interest in Angral’s activities. The Empire has officially denounced Angral, they’re saying he’s gone rogue—and it’s possible that they intend to deal with him in their own way. But if that happens, we lose the thread tracing our stolen plans and projects, and the Empire will not hesitate to take advantage.
> 
> It is imperative that you watch for any additional Sith activity. We will keep you updated, and be sure to check in with General Var Suthra when you arrive.

Quinn checked the chronometer—they wouldn’t arrive for nearly another day.

He set down the datapad and sank back into the Force.

  


* * *

  


Eleanora drummed her fingers on her thigh, glaring up at where the hologram of Darth Baras should have been. Her master was late.

“Where is our evil overlord?” Vette grumbled, “I’m hungry. Why does he always set these calls up right when I want snacks?”

“Hush,” Nora said as the hologram flickered into existence. She could get away with being insolent, but didn’t want Vette to push her luck.

“Apprentice,” Baras said, “I have a new task for you. It is to take priority over all other missions until I tell you otherwise.”

“Even over executing the men unfortunate enough to have served you loyally for years?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “I’m en route to Balmorra now.”

“Watch your tone, Apprentice,” he said, but he didn’t dispute her statement. “Have your slave set a course for Ord Mantell while I brief you on the mission.”

Vette scampered out of the room, only too happy to get away from Baras. Eleanora watched her go with more than a little envy. She shifted her weight to one foot, tossing her braids over her shoulder, and crossed her arms over her chest as Baras began to speak.

“There is a Sith Lord who you may have heard of—Darth Angral. His son was recently killed by a Jedi knight, and he has sworn revenge upon his son’s killer and the Republic,” Baras said. “Normally I would not concern myself with such a petty matter, but it just so happens that Angral is an old enemy of mine.”

“What do you want me to do?” Eleanora asked, wary.

“Ah, Apprentice,” Baras said, and she could hear him smiling beneath the mask. She suppressed a shudder and stared up at him. “Do not rush me, I am trying to savour this moment. For once, I am free to pursue vengeance with full dispensation from the Dark Council. I need not strike from the shadows, or put my guile to use—in fact, I will be rewarded for Angral’s defeat.”

“And of course,” he continued in response to her sullen silence, “my apprentices will rise in status with me. I have decided that whichever one of you ends Angral’s life will immediately rise to the rank of a Lord of the Sith.”

Eleanora straightened—it was the first thing he had ever offered her that tempted her. To be a Sith in her own right—to be free of this damned apprenticeship, to be free of _him_. To be able to pursue her own goals and passions, not his dark, violent ones.

“Ah,” Baras laughed, “my dear apprentice, is that a spark of interest I see? You had best hurry along, then. The others were given a head start—it was only fair, considering how far your talents outstrip theirs.”

She stiffened in irritation. Good thing Vette was already changing course.

“I’ve forwarded you the dossier on the Jedi knight that Angral is hunting—while he is not your focus, he may prove to be useful bait for Angral’s men.”

“Yes, master,” Eleanora said grudgingly.

“Good luck, apprentice,” the hologram said, then the room was empty and silent.

  


* * *

  


“So who is this Jedi guy?” Vette said, holding up a cylindrical piece of her blaster and running a cleaning swab through it. “Are we after him?”

Eleanora set down her datapad and pressed the display button—a holoimage of a man appeared. She pressed another button and it zoomed in, displaying his shoulders and face.

“Knight Malavai Quinn,” she read to Vette. “Rescued from Imperial space, given to the Jedi at age two. He had a promising apprenticeship to a Master Din, entered his knighthood at twenty-two—”

She frowned.

“He’s remained at that rank for...fifteen years? I don’t see any notable accomplishments. No apprentices.”

Vette looked at the holoimage of the man, and Nora followed the Twi’lek’s red gaze.

“Not bad for nearly forty,” Nora mused, raising an eyebrow as she took in the man’s delicate features. “Quite pretty, actually.”

“What about that girl on Nar Shadaa? The one with the black hair?”

Nora snorted. “Not that I have any plans to do anything other than use this Jedi to get out of my apprenticeship, but Ziraa and I will _not_ be seeing each other again. A little too much Corellian whiskey and the bigotry came spilling out.”

“Don’t you hate when that happens?” Vette asked absently, sticking out her tongue and closing one eye as she fitted the barrel back onto her blaster.

Ziraa had just been a fling, but Eleanora was still embarrassed that she hadn’t realized what an idiot she was right away. Her woman’s pale green eyes had distracted her, along with her musical laugh—but it took a special kind of stupid to complain about non-humans to an alien Sith.

“She’s lucky she made that mistake with one of the few Sith who wouldn’t kill her for it,” Nora said. “Though I doubt she will learn from it.”

“Well, that’s her problem now,” Vette said, polishing the fully reassembled blaster with a small scrap of fabric. She set it down and turned to Nora, rubbing her grease-stained fingers into the cloth which had until quite recently been white.

“Can we take a Jedi?” she asked, eyeing Nora as if sizing her up. “I mean, I know you’re strong, but this guy has sixteen years of training on you. We know he killed a Sith Lord who was older and more experienced than you are. And as good as this is looking,” Vette showed off her spotless blaster, “it’s gonna do jack shit against one of you guys.”

Eleanora smirked at Vette, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Give me a little credit,” she said, mock-offended. “I’m not going to go charging in, lightsaber blazing.”

Vette tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, and Nora grinned.

“Ok, ok, so that’s what I _usually_ do. But not this time. I’ll be patient—we’ll gather intel first. I’m not going to risk the possibility of escaping Baras by going in unprepared.” 

Eleanora turned back to the hologram, watching the man spin around slowly once more. Then she pressed the button and he disappeared.

She’d find out if he was just as pretty in person soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Tishina and Blueburds for beta-reading for me, and thanks to SunsetofDoom for collaborating with me on Jedi Asceticism!


	2. Purpose is But the Slave to Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn and Kira have a discussion over breakfast. Nora encounters some of Baras' other apprentices in pursuit of her target. Quinn completes his mission and encounters an alarming number of Sith in one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GENERAL CONTENT WARNING!
> 
> This fic will examine religious trauma, brainwashing, religious self-harm, and unhealthy views about sexuality, emotions, and bodies. It’s going to have a focus on healing/moving on eventually, but it will be dark at times so if these issues aren’t something you want to read about, consider yourself warned.

Quinn walked into the common area of the ship, T7 trailing behind him with a series of beeps and whistles. Kira was already at the table, slicing up some sort of large fruit as C2-N2 poured her a steaming cup of coffee. For a moment the deep, pleasant scent of the drink made his mouth water—but he reached out for the Force, purging both the scent and the desire for it. He sat in the chair opposite her, and C2 set down the tray with his breakfast in front of him.

Quinn surveyed the contents—two slices of toasted wheat bread, a large bowl of plain oatmeal, and a glass of water. He nodded in approval—C2-N2 had clearly paid attention to the dietary guidelines he had provided—and the droid slipped away into the galley to clean up.

He picked up his spoon and was about to take a bite of the porridge when he caught the look on Kira’s face.

“What is it, Padawan?” he asked.

“I didn’t realize—I mean,” she said, looking down at her own plate of eggs, bacon, and fried potatoes that were covered in some sort of red sauce. “Should I eat in my quarters? I feel weird eating, you know, actual food in front of you when you have....that.” She gestured to his oatmeal, torn between politeness and her utter dismay at the disparity between their plates.

“I appreciate the thought, Kira, but if I was tormented by what other people eat and drink, I would have stayed in the Ascetic Enclave. I assure you, I will be fine.” His lips twitched slightly, but he brushed his amusement aside and began to eat.

“Not even fruit, though?” she asked, gesturing to the slices between them on the table. “Fruit is good for you.”

“It’s an unnecessary indulgence,” he said, “I receive adequate nutrition from the supplements added to the grains.”

Kira finally began to eat her breakfast, and he enjoyed a few minutes of silence before the questions started again.

“So you never take the gloves off?”

He took a deep breath through his nose and released it, careful to keep it from sounding like the sigh it was.

 _It’s natural for her to be curious_ , he thought as he chewed. _Perhaps if I satisfy that curiosity, she will leave me be._

“I have removed them to have injuries treated, and I change them several times a day. I promise you that I am _not_ eating my breakfast with the pair I was wearing yesterday.”

“So you comb your hair, shave, everything with gloves on?”

“Yes.”

“I just don’t get it,” she said between bites of her food. “Why? What’s the point? Is it just symbolic?”

“My Order believes that the body is a distraction from true communion with the Force. Any corporeal sensations can become the first step towards corruption. Towards attachment and fear and anger. Towards the Dark Side. There is a symbolic element, certainly—“ he said, taking a sip of his water, “but the gloves are also a tool to help Ascetics comply with the rules of the Order. Some eventually remove them, if they feel they have moved beyond temptation, but—“

He felt his cheeks grow a little warm, ashamed to admit his fear of his own weakness.

“But many decide to continue the tradition,” he finished quickly, hoping that she hadn’t inferred his meaning.

Kira chewed thoughtfully, mulling over his words—perhaps she was appeased. He had just moved on to his toast when she proved him wrong.

“But I mean, do you _sleep_ with them on?”

Quinn set down his spoon and raised an eyebrow. “Padawan, I am willing to indulge your questions, but only up to a point. _This_ is that point.” _If I don’t put a stop to this, she’ll be asking me about how I shower next._

Kira sighed, breaking away from his gaze and rubbing the back of her head with one hand.

“Sorry, Master,” she said, taking another sip of her coffee. “Master Kiwiiks always told me I was too nosy for my own good.”

“Let’s move on to our mission on Ord Mantell,” he said, privately agreeing with Kiwiiks’ assessment. “T7 and I will infiltrate and hack into the terminal at the listening post. You will stay with the ship.”

Kira bristled, muted anger dawning in her bright blue eyes.

“My first mission with you and you’re leaving me behind?”

“Calm yourself, Kira,” he admonished. “You must learn to let go of your feelings.”

She leaned back in her seat, frowning.

“It’s not a punishment,” Quinn said, “Ord Mantell’s port has a notorious criminal element. One of us needs to guard the ship—we can’t leave it here with just the droid. I don’t anticipate much resistance at the Imperial base, and having a secure means of escape is imperative.”

“Can I check out the orbital station at least? If Angral does have a presence here, he’d likely have contacts or agents there.”

Quinn sat back, considering. It was not an unreasonable idea. But Angral had a vendetta against both of them—the Sith knew her face.

“No,” he said, “if you’re recognized, you will be a target. Stay on the ship and keep your ear to the comm.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, resigned. She drained her coffee cup and stood. “Good luck out there.”

  


* * *

  


Eleanora sized up the three apprentices that had arrived just before she did, and cursed Baras once more for calling her last of all. Vette had sliced the dossiers of Baras’ known apprentices, so she recognized their faces, if not all of their names—the Sith pureblood could only be Rora Seake, the assassin. The slavering animals crouching on the ground at her feet confirmed it— she was known to keep vicious, half-mad beasts. The Rattataki—Ysani—was much smaller than she had appeared in her photo, but something about her diminutive stature made Eleanora even more suspicious of what she was capable of. The small woman was missing an arm, but didn’t have a cybernetic replacement. And the human, who she did not recognize, was lounging against the countertop—his long, unkempt hair covering the better part of his face.

“Well, if it isn’t our Master’s favorite apprentice,” Seake drawled, raising a brow-stalk at Nora. “Have you come to join our little endeavor?”

“You’re working together?” Nora asked, mirroring the woman’s expression. She was surprised that there wasn’t already a bloodbath, with this many ambitious Sith apprentices in one room.

“We’re hardly here for the pleasure of each other’s company,” Ysani hissed.

“We’re working together until the moment that it becomes more prudent not to,” Seake said, the hint of an unpleasant smile playing about her mouth.

Eleanora frowned. She didn’t want to work with them—and from Vette’s tight, wary posture, it seemed her companion felt the same way. But if she refused, what would they do? Could she take all three of them at once, and the beasts?

“We’re hacking the security terminals,” Nora said, deciding that a temporary truce was the wisest course of action. “This is Vette. She’s already compromised two of them, and once we have a few more, we’ll be able to track activity—”

“A pointless plan,” Seake said, her voice haughty. “We don’t need to rely on such tactics—all I need to find this Jedi—and our target—is the Force and my hounds.” She laid a hand on the back of one of the shivering beasts, and it flinched, hissing and spitting.

“Yeah, the little guy seems real fond of you, lady,” Vette muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. 

The Sith-blooded woman leaned forward, her red eyes gleaming at Nora below her furrowed brow-stalks. Seak's Force presence rippled, _grew_ —as hostile and aggressive as the beasts at her feet.

“Tell your slave to watch her mouth, girl, or I will feed her to my pets,” Seake said. “Alive.”

Eleanora took a breath, then seized the woman’s throat with the Force, shoving her chair backwards until she struck the wall. Lightning crackled in Seake’s hands, but Eleanora tightened her grip until only sparks remained. Nora let her anger swell, let it blaze around her as she began to move. The two other apprentices practically dove out of her way as she stalked over to the struggling Sith.

“If you even _look_ at her,” Eleanora said, her voice low, “I will tear you apart. Do you understand me?”

Seake’s face was darkening, her eyes bright with outrage—she had expected Eleanora to posture, to threaten—to figure out where her place in the hierarchy of power was. Instead, the woman found herself helpless, her fingers scrabbling fruitlessly at her throat. The beasts made no move to protect their mistress—instead they cowered and whimpered on the floor, unable to bear Seake’s fear and anger.

Eleanora released Seake just as her eyes started to flutter shut, and the deep, pained gasp of inhalation that erupted from her made Vette flinch. Nora turned to the other apprentices—the Rattataki had brandished her pike, but her pale eyes regarded Nora sullenly for a moment, then looked away. The human’s hands were crossed over his chest as he stared at the floor. 

She returned her attention to the Sith-blooded woman, who raised a hand in appeasement, her chest still heaving.

“If you don’t like Vette’s plan, then good luck finding Angral on your own,” Nora said. “I’m not here to play your games.”

Vette fell into step beside her, glancing back at the dazed apprentices with wide eyes.

“Holy shit, Nora, that was insane,” Vette said in an undertone. “Look, I appreciate you protecting me, but you didn’t need to—”

“Yes, I did,” Nora said grimly, looking sideways at the Twi’lek. “I had to establish that I was the threat, not her. For both our sake.”

They walked in silence for a few more minutes, but Vette was still fretting—her lekku were twitching nervously, and her hand was clamped firmly on her blaster. Nora had developed a bond with the Twi’lek ex-pirate over the past year, but she could feel Vette’s unease at seeing her act as the aggressor.

“Vette,” she said, grabbing her friend’s arm and pulling her to a stop. “Listen, we don’t have a lot of time but I need you focused. This is the most dangerous mission we’ve been on—there are _at minimum_ three other parties in this conflict, and none of them are on our side.”

Vette regarded her in silence, but nodded.

“When I was at the Sith Academy,” Nora tried to keep her voice steady, she never spoke about this to anyone, tried never to even think of it, “I—I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I refused to hurt the other students after defeating them. I defied my instructors. They tried punishing me.” She raised a finger to the scar on her cheek, and Vette’s bright eyes followed the motion. “But it didn’t work.”

Nora took a deep breath, trying to calm the desperate racing of her heart.

“So they started torturing other students when I didn’t obey. And that—that worked,” she said, her voice growing weak with the last words. “And the other acolytes hated me for it. Came after me. I had to show them I was strong enough not to be targeted. So—I did.”

She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry and tight, and she unclenched the fists she hadn’t realized she’d made.

“I never fit in to begin with. And after that, at the Academy, I had _no one_. I had to make myself into something other than a target.”

Nora stiffened with surprise when Vette’s wiry arms wrapped around her, but relaxed into the embrace when the Twi’lek gave her a surprisingly powerful squeeze.

“You’ve got me, Nora,” Vette said, and a sudden rush of affection for the Twi’lek swelled in Nora’s breast, nearly choking her. “And I get it. It was just...I’m not used to seeing you like that. But you’re right—and it worked, they backed off.”

They broke apart when Vette’s comm beeped—an alert from one of the security stations she had sliced. She checked it, her red eyes narrowing, then looked up at Nora.

“It’s Angral’s listening station. The Jedi is there.” Vette looked back and forth, frowning, then pulled Nora into a nearby alcove. She held up her holocomm and brought up the video feed from the Imperial base.

Eleanora watched as the white-robed figure cut down everyone who stood in his way. His movements were fluid, graceful—his footwork made Nora envious as he spun from one target to another. He was not going out of his way to attack and did not pursue opponents who fled, but anyone who stepped into his path was slaughtered without hesitation. He was not taking prisoners, not striking to incapacitate.

She frowned.

“Yikes,” Vette said, “this guy is brutal. Look how quickly he breached their defenses.”

Eleanora made a noise of agreement, but her gaze was fixed on the Jedi. He would be a challenge if she faced him directly—there was no doubt about that. But she had faced difficult enemies before. His experience was obvious—even through the grainy video feed she could see how elegantly he handled his blade.

She would have to find a weakness to exploit.

  


* * *

  


Quinn stalked through the corridor in the orbital station, reaching out to the Force to bring peace to his turbulent emotions. His mission had only been partially successful, and he held himself to a higher standard than that. If they’d only been able to fully download the data—

He opened himself, allowed the Force to fill him, to displace and carry away his frustration and irritation. He was growing calmer, feeling more himself with every step. And then a sharp current of anger cut through the tranquility—bitter and bright, like blood poured into running water.

_Kira._

He rushed to the ship, adrenaline giving his feet more speed as he rounded the corner into the docking bay. The girl was a nuisance, but she was his responsibility—it was his duty to keep her safe. He felt the presence of the Dark Side—of decay, of corruption. 

Quinn pulled up short as he caught sight of the dark-robed figure holding a red lightsaber to his Padawan’s neck. T7 finally caught up, beeping and wailing in dismay, but Quinn ignored it.

“So your Master _is_ here,” the man said, his voice thin and distinctly unamused. “Your Padawan is quite the liar, for a Jedi. She fooled even Darth Angral.”

“Angral was here?” Quinn asked sharply, counting and assessing the targets. Five Sith—the leader was more experienced, but the others were mere acolytes. Kira looked to be unharmed, if disheveled and bleary-eyed, but the burns on her clothing were indicative of Force lightning.

“Of course not,” the Sith laughed, “not when he’s being hunted by Jedi and Sith alike. He directed her interrogation over the holo. But it doesn’t matter. One step closer and I’ll kill her.”

“He’s lying,” Kira said, “his orders are to bring me in alive.” She looked at him, her chin jutting out as she raised her head, defiant. Unafraid, in spite of how uncharacteristically pale her face was.

Quinn moved, using the Force to yank the farthest acolyte off his feet. He dragged the young man through the air, knocking down one of the others as the acolyte’s body sped closer. He plunged his lightsaber into the acolyte’s chest, and Quinn was on his next target before he heard the corpse hit the ground. A series of precise strikes felled the other two, and the Sith holding Kira’s arm released her, raising his red blade to protect himself.

Quinn’s white lightsaber screeched against his, and the man took a step back, grimacing with effort. His face was hideously distorted with corruption, and it served as a chilling reminder of the dangers of indulging one’s emotions. They traded a few blows, but Quinn was on the offensive and gaining ground.

_Likely a senior apprentice of Angral’s, judging by his training. But he’s letting his fear rule him._

Indeed, the Sith’s strength began to flag, and Quinn landed a blow to his leg that brought him to his knees. He raised his hand over the fallen figure, his white lightsaber blazing. And then he stiffened as the Force warned him of a new presence—dark and powerful. Quinn's brow furrowed. 

“Executing a defeated opponent? How very unlike a Jedi,” a woman’s voice said, low and teasing.

Quinn half-turned, keeping his blade above the neck of his enemy, and looked at the speaker as she entered the docking bay.

His eyes widened—a Chiss woman sauntered in, flanked by a Lethan Twi’lek whose blaster was drawn and trained on him. His gaze flew to the lightsaber on the Chiss woman’s hip, where one hand rested—drawing his attention to the wide flare of her hips and how tightly her scarlet clothes clung to her figure. Quinn had never quite known how to picture the Sith temptresses he had been warned about as a young man—the smiling sirens who preyed on weak Jedi. But now he had an uncomfortably salient and immediate example. He looked away, clenching his jaw, and then met her gaze, keeping his eyes on hers, in spite of how eerie he found their red glow. He should have charged at her, taken advantage of the extra second it would take her to draw her weapon—but instead he felt the inexplicable urge to answer her insult before he did so.

“He is a Sith. Your kind are a _stain_ on the Force—a blight on the galaxy. He has caused unquantifiable suffering already, and removing him will spare his future victims. It is the correct course of action,” Quinn said evenly.

 _It’s for Kira’s benefit_ , he told himself, seeing the troubled look on his Padawan’s face. _Not because this Sith insulted me._

“I’m not arguing with your logic, Master Jedi,” she said, and his gut clenched with anger at how much mockery she was able to pour into the epithet, all while a sweet smile dimpled her cheeks. “I’m just saying I’ve never seen a Jedi kill an unarmed, kneeling opponent. But far be it from me to stop you on your righteous crusade—I just have a few questions for the man about his master’s whereabouts, if you please. I’ll leave peacefully after that.”

Kira glanced at him, holding up her shackled wrists, and he cut her free before moving back into his position. His apprentice drew her own lightsaber, but waited for his lead.

_Does this Sith truly think she can manipulate me into helping her?_

Suddenly the Chiss moved, her head turning sharply towards the far wall, silver braids swinging. His eye followed one strand in particular as it fell between her half-exposed breasts—and his fists clenched harder, furious at himself for noticing.

“We don’t have much time,” she said, “the others are coming, and they aren't half so charming or agreeable as I am. Let me question him.”

Quinn jerked his arm and decapitated the kneeling man. An angry scoff broke from the Chiss Sith, and he leapt at her—her mockery, her _obscenity_ filling him with a cold rage that was growing just as fast as he was purging it.

With a _snap-hiss_ a black lightsaber with a faint pink glow emerged, and his own blade crashed against it, buzzing and sparking as he pushed against her. But she didn’t yield—she surged forward, in spite of how he towered over her. She forced him backwards, her red eyes blazing with anger, and when she leaned closer, his eyes fell to the painted line on her full lower lip. Suddenly she grinned at him, her dark lashes lowering, and his cheeks burned as he took another halting step back.

And then Kira’s yellow blade spun into his view and the Sith moved away—Quinn staggered forward as the wall of resistance fell. By the time he had straightened, desperately trying to catch his breath, the Chiss and the Twi’lek were gone. He could still feel her presence in the Force, warm and brimming with malicious amusement, and the urge to give chase was strong.

“They were in a _big_ hurry to get outta here,” Kira said. “I’m guessing we should be too.”

He nodded as they moved towards the ship—far more out of breath than he should have been.

Kira was on his heels as they trotted to the cockpit and readied the ship for departure. Quinn punched in his command codes and the engines roared to life as the docking bay doors slowly slid open.

“We could have used that same information, you know,” his Padawan said.

Quinn stiffened.

_She would _dare_ to criticize my decision after disobeying my orders and getting captured?_

He took a deep breath, letting go of his irritation.

“The situation was too unpredictable. I couldn’t risk her getting the information—better for neither of us to have it.”

Kira frowned at him, but turned back to her console.

“And Padawan,” he added, his voice firm and even, “if you ever disobey a direct order again, I will take you back to Coruscant and renounce your training.”

Kira said nothing. She stared out the viewscreen window, her face hard.

When they were safely away from Ord Mantell, Quinn rose to his feet.

“Come,” he said, “let’s see to those burns.”

  


* * *

  


“What a prick!” Vette yelled, throwing her hands up in the air. “He did it out of spite! What kind of Jedi is he?”

Nora shook her head, having nothing to add to the expressed sentiments. He was strong, but not as strong as she feared. But then again, he had been spent after his mission and fighting Angral’s men. The next time she faced him, he would be more powerful. And she had seen a flash of hatred in his eyes just as surely as she had caught him staring at her.

She smiled, leaning forward a little in her chair. She knew that the Jedi denied themselves passion, emotion, and attachment—but she had felt the briefest pang of desire from the man. She had found her angle—and judging from how he had reacted to her, it would prove to be very entertaining. 

“Were you able to plant the tracking device while they were distracted?” she asked, turning to the Twi’lek, hoping that they managed to salvage something of value from the mission, apart from her newfound insight into this Jedi.

“Oh, yeah!” Vette said, immediately brightening. “I almost forgot. That guy just got right under my skin. So arrogant.”

In a moment, a slowly blinking signal lit up on her map of the galaxy—the Jedi’s ship.

“En route to Nar Shaddaa, I’d guess,” Vette said.

“Follow, but give him space,” Eleanora said. “We know better than to try to work with him this time.”

He felt so different from the Sith—from her. There was a void where his feelings should have been—something _hollow_ in him. But she caught flashes of emotion in the Jedi. Nora leaned forward, her chin in her hand, and smiled at the memory of the outrage in those dark blue eyes—the way his pale skin had flushed with something more than anger. This mission for Baras was proving more rewarding than she had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and for leaving kudos and comments!
> 
> Many thanks to Tishina and Blueburds for beta-reading for me.


	3. How Stand I Then Excitements of My Reason and My Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn and Kira head to Nar Shaddaa, but get sidetracked on the way. Nora pays a visit to an ancient Jedi temple, and Quinn deals with the aftermath.

“Master?”

Quinn returned to himself, as much as he would have preferred to stay in his meditative state. Without the Force to cleanse his thoughts, he was vulnerable.

“Yes, Padawan?”

“The technician just called, they’ll be done refueling in about 10 minutes. We can resume our course to Nar Shaddaa after that.”

Quinn nodded and thanked her, but remained on his knees. When Kira departed without further comment—she had been subdued since the previous week’s events—he was left alone with the thoughts he had been avoiding. The memory of the Sith woman haunted him, as if she was still in front of him. The way those strange red eyes bored into him—the surprising strength she had pushed him back with. How _soft_ she had looked, how his fingers had twitched with the desire to touch that blue flesh.

And worst of all, how her mere presence had utterly unhinged his self-control. He spent hours analyzing his behavior—in truth, he had reacted hastily to her provocation. It would have been more prudent to bring the man with them, to question him. But the way she had approached him offended him on a level he hadn’t known was possible—casually asking him for a favor, as if they weren’t sworn enemies on either side of an ideological war. And the way her face twisted with anger, her surprise at what he did—as if she considered herself _above_ it. As if she wasn’t a killer, a corrupter. A monster.

His fists had clenched without him noticing, and he drew in a deep breath, exhaling the tension and relaxing his hands. He had been unprepared for her, that was all—he would know what to expect if he encountered her again. Quinn had always walked the consecrated path—had passed his trials, had moved beyond such temptations. He could steel himself against her crude attempts to distract him with her body.

Quinn stole a few more moments of silence—until he heard the dull, distant clang of the refueling apparatus detaching. He rose to his feet, the muscles in his thighs protesting from his prolonged inactivity. He stretched, sighing softly as the faint tingle of sensation returned to his legs.

In a matter of a few minutes, they were moving again—towards Nar Shaddaa, and the next part of their mission to thwart Angral’s plans. Quinn was halfway through his bowl of rice when a distress call set off the ship’s alert. Quinn rose to his feet, abandoning his dinner as he strode to the comm. Kira was already there, listening intently to the message.

“There’s a small colony on a nearby moon,” she said, looking up at him. “There’s a few ancient Temples there, and they’re being raided by the Sith. Multiple Sith assailants, the guardians are overwhelmed.”

Quinn frowned—they must be after something valuable to risk such an assault. “How recent was the call?”

“Within the last fifteen minutes,” Kira answered, her eyes wide with excitement. “We’re probably the first ones to hear it. We’re gonna help, right?”

They should continue to Nar Shaddaa—whatever the Sith were after on that moon had to be less important than pursuing Angral. The guardians would have to fend off the Sith on their own. But it was a moon he was barely familiar with, which told him that the Jedi would not keep a significant presence there. Not with their numbers so thin. Quinn’s brow furrowed. Would even one knight be stationed there?

Did they stand even a small chance?

_Could he pass by and do nothing?_

  


* * *

  


“It _has_ to be this one,” Vette said, frowning over her scanner. “It’s the only other temple with living guardians in addition to the droids.”

“We’ve got to get that holocron—once we do, the others will move on, and so can we”, Eleanora said.

“Why does Baras want it now, anyway? What’s so important that he’d drop this on you at such a crucial time?”

“It has something to do with that Padawan he’s fixated on—Willsaam. He’s seeking more insight into her rumored abilities,” Eleanora said, “and he, of course, let Seake and the others know as well.” Vette made to enter the ruin, but Nora held up a hand, and Vette paused.

Eleanora closed her eyes and reached out with the Force, searching—trying to pinpoint the location of the life-forms in the temple. She could feel them deep within—one shone brightly, a soft, warm presence, and there were two others, muffled and concealed somehow. And _of course_ they would be in the room with the holocron. In the distance, she could feel the other apprentices as they ransacked the larger temple a few kilometers away. Their hunger, their eagerness to destroy, to _kill_ , crackled and rippled like thunderclouds on the horizon. They’d soon overwhelm the automated defenses, and they would not be satisfied with cutting down droids.

She opened her eyes again, turning to Vette. 

“We need to move quickly,” she said.

  


* * *

  


Quinn leaned against the stone wall, keeping his breathing even. Kira was stationed on the opposite end of the room, her eyes closed in meditation. His attention was split between dampening their presence and maintaining a perimeter with the Force, but he found himself watching the third figure in the room as well.

Other than the droids and automated turrets, the temple’s defenses consisted of one woman who, judging by her appearance, was nearly as ancient as the stones around them. Only a few strands of wispy white hair remained on her wizened head, and she was bent nearly double as she stood. She was setting a tea kettle, a specimen that was certainly older than Quinn, and he suppressed the urge to stop her and point out that any sound would attract attention.

The woman had not responded at all when he told her to leave, or to hide—Kira believed that she was blind. She had ignored both speech and his Padawan’s gentle Force-touch, and refused to be moved from her low table and stool. He could feel her presence in the Force, so she had to have once been a Jedi, but she appeared to take no notice whatsoever of her surroundings.

Quinn stiffened as he felt a presence at the edge of his awareness—powerful, dangerous. Bright.

_No, not her. It couldn’t be._

As the Sith approached, her dark, vibrant aura grew stronger—it was her, he could _feel_ it. He looked at Kira, and her eyes were open now, seeking his—worry knitting her brow.

 _Wait_ , he told her through the Force. _Wait for my lead_. He had been careful to stifle the beginning of a Force-bond with her, but they were able to communicate silently at short range, at least.

His heartbeat quickened with each passing moment, as the Sith drew closer and closer. Adrenaline raced through his veins, his muscles were tense, tightly coiled. And then he saw her. He and Kira were both concealed by shadows and the Force, and her eyes moved past him. A small amount of relief flooded him—he would have the upper hand. And then the Sith crossed the room, her red-skinned Twi’lek remaining on guard in the doorframe.

Quinn watched her walk towards the shelves of holocrons on the far wall—ignoring the way something low in his belly stirred when his eyes fell to the round curves of her thighs as moved, the tightness of her red clothing leaving little to his imagination. He was not affected by such base things, he _would not be_ , and she was _Sith_ of all things—

And his fist clenched harder on the hilt of his lightsaber—the Chiss Sith had pulled up short, stopping in the middle of the room. Alarm raced through him, he had expected her to go to the holocrons—had she spotted him?

The Sith stood over the old woman, and Quinn’s eyes darted briefly to Kira as he saw her hand slide up to her mouth in horror.

 _Be calm and silent_ he told her, and she lowered her hand back to the hilt of her double-bladed saber. It was just like a Sith to use a helpless elder as a shield—if the Chiss wasn’t aware of his presence, she must be at least wary of it. 

The Sith raised her hand and made a brushing movement with her fingers, and after a few seconds, a holocron flew from the stone shelf into her waiting palm. She tucked it into a pouch at her belt, and Quinn shifted, ready to move, but how could he reach her with the old woman between them? The ancient Jedi was groping around on the table, searching for her cup as she used the Force to reach for the kettle.

And then the Sith bent over the old woman, taking the kettle in one hand and the cup in the other. The uncanny red glow of her eyes suddenly fixed on him, and cold realization splashed down his shoulders and back. She saw him, _had seen him the entire time_. He was torn, afraid that if he moved, she would crush the old woman with a wordless gesture—but he was equally disturbed at whatever the Sith was about to do. He was furious at his helplessness—and at how _calm_ the Sith felt, at how he couldn't help but notice the low neckline of her top as she leaned forward. He forced his eyes back up to hers. She held his gaze as she poured the hot water into the cup, then pushed the cup into the old woman’s hands, folding the crone’s grasping, withered fingers around it.

“Here, mother,” the Chiss woman’s low voice said. “Stay in here and drink your tea.”

She turned to leave but one of the old woman’s claw-like hands moved with shocking alacrity, gripping the Sith’s wrist. The Sith stiffened but made no move, save to turn back to the elder. The old woman pulled the Sith closer, her lips moving soundlessly, and the Chiss bent to listen, her silver braids hanging in the air. A moment later, the Sith straightened, patting the woman’s hand and gently moving it back to the cup.

Cold rage began to pool in his belly—somehow this was worse than any of the horrible actions he had expected her to take.

 _How dare she continue to mock me? How dare she pretend to be something other than the hand of chaos that she is?_

As the Sith turned to the door, she caught Quinn’s eye once more, aware of his growing hostility. She winked at him, one glowing eye vanishing into darkness, and his anger spilled over as she slipped out of the stone doorway.

Quinn charged after her, finally free to pursue now that the old woman was out of the way, and he called to Kira as he moved.

“Stay with her, keep her safe,” he said, and Kira nodded, slipping into his previous position to be closer to the elder Jedi.

He told himself that it was the holocron he was chasing, it must be returned—it had nothing to do with the way the Sith managed to crack open every wall and barrier and release his pent-up fury.

  


* * *

  


Eleanora released a low sound of amusement as she felt the Jedi lose control of his emotions—he was giving chase, fuming as he tried to process her actions. She began to raise a barrier with the Force, drawing in power as she jogged forward.

“Keep moving, Vette,” she said, “get the ship ready for departure, I’ll follow you shortly. Dispatch the message I recorded for Baras, it will call the others off.”

“You got it,” Vette said, running past Nora and through the far doorway.

Nora waited until the Jedi rounded the corner and caught sight of her, and then ducked through the side door. Half a second later he burst into the room, leaping towards her with a flurry of precisely aimed blows. Eleanora dodged, grinning at him as she moved and raised the barrier she had built.

His blade struck her Force-shield and glanced off—and then she _pushed_ and he reeled backward as the wall of Force energy suddenly expanded, as swift and brutal as a thunderclap. The Jedi shook his head, trying to recover his footing, and she struck him again while he was vulnerable. He staggered to the side, catching himself, and raised a hand to retaliate.

And Eleanora seized him with the Force and shoved him up against the cool, flat stones of the wall. He huffed as she knocked the wind from him, and then she was behind him, closing in. The Jedi felt her approaching and snarled, trying desperately to move the arm holding his lightsaber, but Nora clamped her fingers down on his wrist. He took a deep breath, and she felt him reach out for the Force, trying to fight her off.

She raised her free hand and closed it around his throat, and the moment her fingers touched his skin, his entire body went rigid. The Jedi drew in a hissed breath, as if he had been burned—and she smiled, feeling him shudder as she dragged the nail of her index finger across his skin. She stepped closer, close enough that his robes brushed against her, and when a gasp of outrage spilled from his lips, she pinned him to the wall.

She pressed herself against him, her hips flush against his ass, her thigh wrapping around his. Eleanora smiled as she leaned upwards, and she heard another low noise issue from him as her breasts pushed into his back. He tried to move away, but could only get closer to the wall—his cheek was pressed against it, his brow furrowed and eyes squeezed shut. A thrill of desire shot through her—oh, his reactions were _intoxicating_.

There was something empty, something _hungry_ in him—and his feelings were rebelling against the white-knuckled stranglehold he held them with. His facade had cracked—his emotions were a maelstrom, warring and twisting, merging and separating and spinning together again with every passing second. Fear and anger and _want_. 

“Master Jedi,” she said softly, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, “you push it down, but I can feel the conflict within you. The _passion_. Why did you follow me, but leave your apprentice behind, hmm? Were you _hoping_ for something like this?” The muscles of his haunches quivered against her, and she could feel his pulse pounding beneath her fingertips as his mouth pulled into a grimace, his teeth clenched.

“No,” he hissed, but the scarlet blush adorning his face and ears and the way his lips fell open when she pressed her hips into him more firmly gave him away. Her smile widened as the unmistakable taste of his lust washed over her.

“The things I could show you,” Nora purred, brushing her lips against Quinn’s neck. Another shiver wracked his body and a soft, choked sound broke from him—and then a sharp warning from the Force gave her just enough time to move. The Jedi slammed his head backward but she released him, stepping out of his reach as he whirled with a savage swipe of his blade. His eyes were wild, the blue nearly swallowed by the black—and his fury was palpable, rolling off him in waves that made the skin on her arms pull into gooseflesh.

Eleanora dodged as he leapt at her, then used the Force to propel herself through the far door.

“Until next time, Master Jedi,” she called over her shoulder as she collapsed the already-haphazard stones of the doorway.

  


* * *

  


The holocomm pinged, and Quinn ignored it. He knew it was Kira—he could feel her tension and growing concern. But he had told C2-N2 that he was not to be disturbed while he meditated, and though it had been three days, the droid was still standing guard at his door. They would arrive at Nar Shaddaa in two more days, and he needed to be focused. He would talk to Kira after, when he could be a better teacher to her.

Hunger gnawed at him, a sucking, hollow feeling in his belly, and he embraced it—he was eager to latch onto any permissible physical sensations. Fasting had always brought a kind of stark clarity to his meditation—had helped him re-center and focus himself in the Force. In the Light. But he was struggling.

He longed for the peace of his home temple—the distant song echoing from the central room, the quiet company of his fellow Ascetic Jedi. The Masters who he could confess his transgressions to, who would offer him guidance and advice for how to master his sinful flesh. The sacred chambers where he had once defeated these demons as an adolescent—or so he had thought.

Quinn reached out to the Force for peace, for guidance, for _anything_ —and instead all he could see was the smirk on the Sith’s face, her teasing wink. All he could think of was the feeling of her soft body pressed against his—of the searing touch of her skin on his as her fingers wrapped around his throat. Of how her lips had brushed his ear, his neck—how every nerve had lit up at the contact, flooding his body and mind with sensations that he was never meant to feel. 

He had been weak.

And the humiliating reminder of his weakness ached between his legs just at the memory of her touch. Days later, his traitorous body was still responding to her call. A strict regimen of meditation and self-denial had kept this particular problem from tormenting him for years—but one touch from her had shattered decades of strict training. Anger flared in him, mixing with the desire he was trying so desperately to purge—how dare she? Quinn tried to bend his thoughts elsewhere—to the mission ahead on Nar Shaddaa, to what Angral’s next move would be, to whatever was on the holocron the Sith stole.

He knew what he should have done in the moment she had pushed him against the wall—if he had lashed out, she would have been forced to retreat, even if just momentarily. He could have used the Force, could have torn his arm free of her iron grip and swung his blade at her. But the feeling of her body near his—the electric jolt that her bare fingers on his throat had sent down through his belly into the burning muscles of his legs had stunned him. He had only known pain, hunger, fatigue—his flesh was not meant to shiver with pleasure, to respond so eagerly to the touch of the Dark Side.

And the deviousness of her tongue, the poisoned words she had spoken to him—the promise of more pleasure, of the forbidden things she could show him—

_No. There is no passion, there is serenity. She is a temptation, a stumbling block—a test of my resolve, of my devotion. I will resist her. I trained for this, I am above this._

His fingers dug into his knees as an echo of old pain ghosted across his shoulders, his back—and he reached out for it, drawing clarity from the memory. He turned his mind back to the dossier Grand Master Shan had forwarded to him after he reported the Sith’s description and interest in Angral. It had not been difficult to identify her—she was one of three known Chiss Sith, and the youngest by nearly thirty years. 

His tormentor had a name.

_Eleanora. Just Eleanora. Not a Chiss name, but she was raised in the Empire, so that wasn’t terribly surprising. Apprenticed to Baras, one of the most insidious and depraved Sith Lords—which is damning enough in itself . Sixteen years younger than me, if the report can be believed, which makes her shockingly powerful for her age. Her lightsaber skills are crude, inelegant, and brutal, but undeniably effective. But her behavior..._

He thought back to the moment when she pushed the tea into the old woman’s hands, and was ashamed to realize that he had almost _wanted_ her to hurt the ancient crone—wanted the Sith to be what he expected. Because the gentle way the Sith had spoken to her and touched her confounded him—it didn’t fit with the behavior of the favoured apprentice of a beast like Baras. Kira was just as baffled, looking to him for answers. Answers he did not have.

_What was her purpose? What was there to gain, other than antagonizing me? Why would she risk her escape, risk the holocron to listen to what the senile old woman had to say?_

And what did the elder say to her?

_Why would she speak to her, and not me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to heat up a little bit, hehe. Thank you so much for reading, and extra thanks for comments--they make my day!
> 
> Thanks to Tishina and Blueburds for beta-reading, and to SunsetofDoom for brainstorming and worldbuilding help!


	4. Though This Be Madness, Yet There Is Method In’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn and Kira learn about the project they're trying to recover, and discuss the past. Nora gets new information and comes to a decision. Quinn and Kira butt heads, and Nora navigates a tricky situation.

The holocall from General Var Suthra came through just as Quinn finished his evening meditation. Kira reported to the conference room a moment later, giving him a casual nod as if he hadn’t spent the last four days meditating in his quarters and ignoring her. He found himself grateful for her professionalism, if nothing else.

“Knight Quinn, Apprentice Carsen,” General Var Suthra said, “I must warn you now—the project on Nar Shaddaa.” He paused, his large amphibian eyes blinking rapidly, and then looked away. “It should never have greenlit. And I—I should have ended it long ago.”

Kira turned to Quinn, raising an eyebrow. “Well, this sounds like a conversation that’s going to end well.”

Quinn frowned at her levity— _so much for the professionalism_ —but couldn’t say that he disagreed.

The hologram of the Mon Calamarian sighed, his hands on his hips, and shook his head.

“You were too young to remember, Padawan,” Var Suthra said, “but after the devastation on Coruscant—after the heart of the Republic was conquered and burned, our people were terrified. The whole galaxy could see that we were weak. Helpless. We had to protect ourselves. So we created the Power Guards—engineered soldiers powerful enough to take down a Sith.”

“Aren’t the Jedi the best defense against the Sith?” Kira asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s kind of what we _do_.”

“That’s true enough,” Var Suthra said, “but there were even fewer Jedi a decade ago than there are today. Your order was nearly extinct, and the Senate had no idea if your numbers would recover. We couldn’t just wait and find out with no backup plan.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed.

“So we set up on Nar Shaddaa—cutting edge cybernetics and weapons tech, black market combat adrenals. And the Hutts didn’t care that the research was illegal, so long as we kept their pockets lined. So the Power Guard project was started to turn men into walking weapons. And now Angral has the location—and probably our operative.” 

Quinn echoed Kira’s posture, crossing his arms tightly, and then took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his back instead. 

_Circumstances were indeed dire, for both the Republic and the Jedi, but what a costly mistake to have made. A knee-jerk reaction to fear, and look at the results._

When Var Suthra had briefed them on SIS headquarters and their contact there, Quinn retired to his quarters—they would arrive at Nar Shaddaa in 12 hours. Kira didn’t bother asking him if he’d join her for dinner—after he’d turned her down for days, she’d accepted the fact that he was going to fast until they arrived. Five days was hardly the longest he’d gone without food, and every day he felt his body submitting to his control a little more. But he was still troubled—particularly in the mornings, when the dread, fear, and shameful desires from his dreams lingered.

As he climbed into his bed, Quinn mercilessly crushed that train of thought, knowing where its destination lay—or rather, who waited there.

  


* * *

  


Quinn entered the bridge for his morning meditation at exactly 0600 hours, but pulled up short and blinked when he saw his apprentice seated on her mat. He suppressed a sigh—he couldn’t remember a time when he had needed peace and quiet more. She took a deep breath as she straightened from her relaxed position and turned to look up at him.

“Sorry,” she said, a wry smile twisting her mouth, “didn’t mean to blow up your spot, but it’s the quietest place on the ship.” Kira started to rise, and Quinn’s hand raised of its own accord, gesturing for her to stay where she was. Surprise crossed her face, but he felt nearly as bewildered as she was.

He sank down to his knees on the other side of the bridge, assuming his usual meditation position. Kira fidgeted a few times, but settled back down. He had gotten very little sleep, so he wasn’t sure how easily he would be able to slip into the Force. Kira’s presence was noticeable, but not obtrusive—her aura was calm and stable. The soft sounds of another person—the occasional rustle of fabric, the near-silent exhale of breath—lulled him into relaxation. After a few minutes of deep, even breathing, he was able to let go of himself and allow the Force to wash into him. When he had emptied himself of feelings—when he had finally let go of the unease that his fixation on the Sith woman had caused—he slowly returned to the bridge.

He turned to Kira, who was stirring as well.

“You are up early, Padawan,” he said. “Is something troubling you?”

She looked down at her folded legs, then met his gaze. “It’s this Power Guard project. I don’t like the sound of it. Illegal research, engineered soldiers, living weapons—that sounds more like the Empire than the Republic to me.”

Quinn frowned, his eyes narrowing, but he nodded. “I agree. It was a misguided emotional reaction to Imperial aggression. Such are the results when decisions are based on fear.” He exhaled, furrowing his brow. “It’s why it is imperative for us to put our feelings aside.”

Kira sighed, bowing her head. “And now we have to clean up their mess.”

“Yes, Padawan,” he said, “but we will do our duty.”

Kira nodded and rose to her feet, stretching out her arms and then each leg.

“Are you finally gonna eat something, or are you planning on passing out from hunger during our first encounter with the Sith?” she said, cocking her head at him.

Quinn’s lips nearly twitched.

  


* * *

  


“So what was your home Temple like when you were growing up?” Kira said around a mouthful of pancakes. “How different is it from the Tython Temple?”

Quinn sat up a bit straighter as he ruminated on the question. He wasn’t used to such interest in his order—ever since he left the Temple to serve the Republic, most moderate Jedi politely avoided discussing Asceticism. But apparently his Padawan was so baffled by his practices that her curiosity had remained insatiable. 

“It’s not so different for the young ones,” he said. “We attended classes, meditated—trained under the Masters. Sometimes the lessons were challenging, or difficult. But we were never alone.” He took a sip of water, staring past his Padawan as distant memories stirred. “Sometimes we worked in the gardens—that was always a favorite assignment of mine.”

“You miss it,” she said, her voice low—it was not a question. 

“Yes,” he breathed, the simple truth of the statement washing over him. “Yes, I do.” _Things were so much simpler there._

“I could have stayed there forever,” he said softly, gripped by the memory of kneeling in the dirt, of pressing seeds into the rich earth and reaching out to the Force to encourage them to grow. Of the smell of the fields, the copper-bright glow of the autumn grain just before harvest. Of how he could calculate, nearly down to the kilogram, the yield of each row of the root vegetables.

“But I was called to serve in the war,” he finished, blinking as he returned to himself. It was true, to a degree—but he didn’t talk about why he had been apprenticed outside his home Temple. The integrity of his order was more important than his own.

“But what about what you wanted?” his Padawan asked, her blue eyes sharp and brow furrowed.

Quinn frowned.

“It’s not about what I wanted. It’s about what I was called to do,” he said, his voice prim. “It’s about my _duty_.”

“My gifts were combat, statistical analysis—strategy,” Quinn continued. “The Masters told me the gardens would wait for me—until I had given everything I could in service to the Republic. To the Light.”

Kira took a sip of coffee and regarded him in silence. There was something unreadable in her face, and then she looked away.

  


* * *

  


Eleanora frowned at the hologram of her Master as he towered over her.

“Why, my dear apprentice, you do not look very pleased to see me,” Baras said, his tone light and mocking. “I would have expected you to be triumphant, in light of your success. What could possibly be the matter?”

“It’s your other apprentices. I’m _not_ happy to have this pack of rabid manka cats trailing me, jeopardizing my missions,” Nora said flatly. “They’re a liability. They were so busy blindly ransacking temples that they attracted the attention of the Jedi. The only reason you are holding that holocron now is because of me.”

“I understand that you put them in their place—as you should have,” he said. “Perhaps they need another lesson.”

Nora glowered up at him, her arms crossed and weight shifted onto one hip.

“It is so _very_ frustrating to have stubborn underlings that treat you with disrespect and disregard your orders, isn’t it?” Baras said, and anger surged into her, hot and smothering. But she remained silent, denying him any reaction.

“Either bring them to heel, or kill them,” Baras said, dropping the pretense of mockery—his tone was cold, bored. “I don’t care which. But know that if you wipe them out, you will be solely responsible for both the capture of Nomen Karr’s Padawan _and_ the death of Darth Angral.”

His masked face tilted slightly—she got the impression he was appraising her, not for the first time. “Your opportunity for advancement is unparalleled, apprentice. But so is your opportunity for failure. Do not forget it.”

The moment he signed off, Eleanora stalked into the common area and made a beeline for the bar—Vette already had the whiskey out. Nora poured herself a shot, tossed it back, then poured a double and threw herself into the comfortable chair opposite Vette’s.

“Good meeting?” Vette said, a small sparkle in her red eyes. “You look thrilled.”

Eleanora shook her head, running a hand over her hair. She’d have to try to keep the others in line—the alternative was being in two places at once. She needed to go with the option that actually carried a possibility of success if she was to have any hope of getting out of this apprenticeship.

“So,” Vette said, “that report just came in from Intelligence, courtesy of Cipher Nine. It’s got a lot more information about your weird Jedi than Baras’ dossier did.” Her red fingers danced over the screen of her datapad, and Nora pulled out her own as it lit up with the forwarded message. “Seems like he’s part of some _extra_ uptight Jedi group.”

Eleanora leaned back in her seat, taking a long sip of whiskey and frowning down at the report.

> Nora, 
> 
> I’m afraid that there’s very little information about this particular sect of Jedi, so I’m not sure how much help this will be. I can tell you that they’re called Ascetics. Their practices are simply not discussed outside of their order, so much of what we know is second or third hand from operatives who have observed them on missions. A few have been captured, but interrogation attempts were useless—apparently to earn their knighthood, they learn to bear great pain. All subjects died without breaking or offering any further information, some of them after days of torture.
> 
> Ascetics take the Jedi’s prohibition on emotion even further—they forbid anything that feels good. No alcohol, no sex, no luxuries. Some go as far as to abstain from all physical contact—they view it as a path to the Dark Side. Does your Knight wear gloves? If he does, he may be a member of the most orthodox order. They also have some sort of dietary restriction, but I don’t have any reliable details there. The general takeaway seems to be that they are composed, deadly, and difficult to break. This Knight is going to be a formidable opponent. Please be very careful in dealing with him.

Eleanora read the rest of the report, one corner of her lips curling upward at her aunt’s warm sentiments, then looked back up at Vette.

“This guy sounds miserable,” the Twi’lek said, shaking her head. “No wonder he’s so pissed all the time.”

Nora laughed and took another sip of whiskey, imagining briefly what it would be like to live by those constraints. She shuddered. Vette was right. And no wonder he had reacted to her touch like her fingers were live wires—how long had it been since he had felt someone else’s skin on his? Arousal suddenly blossomed in her belly at the memory of his flushed face—at the way his body had trembled under her hands like a wild animal caught in a snare. She furrowed her brow.

“What’s the matter?” Vette asked, pulling her lekku over her shoulder and arranging them comfortably as she reclined.

“I feel sorry for him,” Nora said, her voice low and chest tight. “If this is what he’s known since childhood—no emotion, no warmth, no pleasure. I—I just can’t imagine it.” 

“How could someone cope with that?” she mused. “How is he _sane_?”

“Uh, Nora, have you considered the strong possibility that he’s _not_?” Vette said, raising her hands. “He’s a killing machine and he seems to really hate you in particular. Both times you’ve seen him he’s come after you like you did something _personal_ to him.”

Nora waved the idea away dismissively. He was more volatile than she had expected from his kind, but she had been able to handle him. Another pang of pity tightened in her breast at how shocked he had been when she touched him. She nearly felt guilty, save for the fact that he was trying to kill her.

At the same time, her mind immediately raced to every implication. He was nearly forty years old—had he really remained celibate for nearly as long as she had been alive? While there were those who would struggle less with such a prohibition, she had _felt_ his desire—it had been so powerful that he couldn’t maintain his grip on it. For a moment, the emotional vacuum that was his presence in the Force had instead radiated confusion and outrage and _want_ in an overwhelming surge.

Eleanora wondered what his emotions would have felt like if, instead of moving to strike her, he had leaned back into her touch. What if she had spun him around and ravished him against the wall, kissing down his throat, his gloved hands making fists in her braids? What sounds would he make if she pushed herself against him, if she reached down to tease him through his robes? How long would he last before he was begging for her touch? Heat was pooling in her belly—she wanted to know the answer.

She sat up abruptly, downing the rest of her whiskey in one and setting her cup on the countertop for TooVee.

“Goodnight,” she said to Vette as she walked to her quarters, “thanks for keeping an eye out for that report.”

“You’re going to bed early,” the Twi’lek said, raising an eyebrow. Eleanora held back a smirk as she slipped through the doors of her quarters.

  


* * *

  


Quinn’s lip curled as he gingerly sat down in the cantina booth opposite his Padawan—the seats looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in months. But unlike the project they were working to recover and then destroy, their mission did not come with an unlimited supply of credits, and this run-down cantina was owned by a Republic sympathizer. It was their best option for the time being, considering how long the transit back to their ship would take. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. He hoped Chief Rieekan wouldn’t take much longer to decode Galen’s reports—he was eager to move their base of operations back to the ship. 

There were some shady characters at the bar, but no one appeared to be an active threat. Two Mandalorians, a small group of what he could only guess were smugglers, and a hooded figure at the far end of the bar.

When the server set his food down in front of him, his brow furrowed. For the second night in a row, he scraped the edible portion of the dish away from the things he had requested that they leave off—herbs, pungent vegetables, some sort of dried fruit. He glanced over at the bar as he took a bite of the plain porridge, and stiffened when he realized that they were being watched.

Or rather, his apprentice was being watched.

A young Zabrak woman with olive skin and extensive tattoos downed the last sip of her cocktail and left a stack of credits at the bar, then swaggered up to their table. Quinn frowned at her, but Kira’s eyes grew wide and her face began to color.

“Heya, love,” the woman grinned, leaning on the side of the booth and leaning down to curl her finger through a strand of Kira’s red hair. “Will I see you again tonight?” The Zabrak’s dark eyes flicked to him, dancing with mockery and more than a little challenge, then back to his Padawan.

“Probably not now, thanks,” Kira groused, shooting an exasperated glance at her.

“Well, you’ve got my holo,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at Quinn before walking away towards the suites. When she disappeared from sight, he turned to his apprentice, who was staring at the table, her jaw set.

“Kira,” he said, “you _know_ that such things are forbidden—”

“For you, maybe,” she said, her blue eyes defiant and voice low. “Sex isn’t forbidden by the Jedi Code.”

Quinn stiffened, feeling his face begin to burn at Kira’s bluntness.

“Attachment is a form of emotional involvement, and it leads to—”

“Depravity and ruin, yeah, got it,” Kira snapped, leaning forward. “But attachment isn’t necessary for sex. I just met her last night, I am not ‘attached’ to her.”

Quinn inhaled deeply, suppressing the anger that wanted to rise in response to hers. “Padawan,” he said, his voice even, “there is also the matter of _security_ , of letting a stranger into your suite on this type of mission.”

“She didn’t stay over, and I never left her alone. Don’t give me that, if I’d invited her back to my suite to play sabacc you wouldn’t have any objections. This is about your personal morality,” Kira said, taking a sip of her drink.

Quinn opened and closed his mouth, trying to formulate a response that wouldn’t reveal his irritation. But he was coming up empty-handed.

“I’m not an Ascetic,” she said, her voice growing less hostile. “Master, you—I’ve been working with you, indirectly and directly, for a few months now. And I haven’t felt a single shred of feeling from you. I can tell when I’m bothering you because of the faces you make, but it’s like you’re not even _there_ in the Force.” Kira took another sip of her drink. “I’m not like you. I try not to let my emotions guide me, but I still _feel_ them.”

Quinn was silent for a moment as he processed what she said. Part of him was welling up with relief—he had been more successful in suppressing his feelings than he thought. And she hadn’t been present when the Sith had tormented him, had _touched_ him. His private shame was still private. He shivered as the place on his throat where her fingers had gripped him burned once more.

Quinn looked away, and then the hooded figure in the far corner of the bar turned a pair of glowing red eyes in his direction. Quinn froze, but then the figure lowered the hood, revealing an elderly Chiss man. On some level, he had known it wasn’t the Sith—he would have felt her presence—but the sight had still unsettled him.

He took a deep breath and rose from the table, fishing a few credits from his belt.

“I won’t argue with you about this, Padawan,” he said, setting the credits on the table before he retreated to his room.

  


* * *

  


Eleanora sauntered into the Hutt’s palace, Vette’s wary form sticking close by.

“These places make my skin crawl,” Vette said, her hand hovering near her blaster.

“I feel the same way,” Nora said in an undertone as they walked up the spiral ramp and ducked into the lounge, “but it’s where these idiots are and I’ve got to find out what they know. We lost two full days bringing that damn holocron to Baras’ contact, since he wouldn’t send him to meet us.”

“Probably did that on purpose,” Vette muttered, and Nora made a low noise of agreement as she spotted the Sith-blooded woman—Seake—relaxing in a semi-private room. A Gamorrean guard blocked the door with his spear when Nora made to enter, but then the guard stepped out of the way, head bobbing in submission when he caught sight of the lightsaber on her belt.

“Ah,” Seake said, a wide smile spreading across her face, “the golden child returns to us once more. Join us.” She gestured to the wide, round booth, the seats empty save for the Rattataki and the silent human man. Nora had wondered if Seake would be embittered by Nora’s display of dominance at their last meeting, or impressed by it. Her instinct told her it was the latter, so Nora sprawled into the open seat, holding her hand up to summon service from the bar. 

She ordered a whiskey for herself and Vette, and wasted no time asking about the status of the mission.

“Why should we tell you?” Ysani said, her pale eyes narrowing. “So you can swoop in again and go running off to Baras with your prize?”

“Come now,” Seake said, shooting a glance at the Rattataki, “we know Angral himself isn’t here. Just his apprentice. And there is the matter of Rathari as well. Our master has multiple interests on Nar Shaddaa. There will be a time for competition,” the Sith-blooded woman said, “and when it comes, I won’t hold back. But we’re not there yet. We can be...friendly.” The woman grinned at Nora, sharp teeth flashing as her red eyes raked up and down her body. Nora took a sip of whiskey, not shying away from the woman’s heated gaze, then she noticed Vette staring at the long-haired human man who never spoke. His drink sat in front of him, untouched, and he was watching them, his gold eyes as flat and shiny and cold as the surface of a coin.

“Your friend here doesn’t say much,” Nora said to Seake, gesturing to the man.

“He says _nothing_ ,” Ysani corrected, an unpleasant smile on her small tattooed face. “He’s called the Silent for a reason.”

Vette rolled her eyes, and Nora quickly guided the conversation to a different topic. “The Jedi,” she said, “Quinn. What’s his status?”

“Still playing cat and mouse with Sadic,” Seake said, taking a drag from a long, thin cigarette. “We’re following, but not too closely. The Power Guards are nasty pieces of work. Figure we’ll let them wear each other out, then move in when Sadic shows himself. We should be able to get information out of him. Or rather, that one will,” she said, nodding her head towards the man with the long, unkempt hair.

The man’s expression changed—it wasn’t exactly a smile, but Nora immediately looked away. Something about him made her stomach twist and her skin crawl. She returned to attention to Seake, who was sizing her up once more. Eleanora wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that they weren’t killing or frightening every possible source of information and leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, or dismayed that they were adopting better tactics and taking away a part of her advantage.

“And you?” Ysani said, her eyes sharp. “Are you the one who interrupted Rathari’s negotiations with the Hutts?”

“Yes,” Nora said, taking another sip of her whiskey. “After I killed his apprentice, the Hutts decided that mine was the better offer.” One of Vette’s lekku twitched in surprise, and Nora gave her a brief glance—she had spared Rathari’s apprentice, but the young man had impaled himself on his own lightsaber. But the others didn’t need to know that.

Seake smirked, raising her glass in a toast, and Eleanora rose to her feet, raising her own glass and then draining it. 

“You should come back to my quarters,” Seake said, her red eyes half-lidded as she stood, stepping close enough that Nora could smell the faint heat and spice of her perfume. “We can...celebrate.” She had quite a bit of height on Nora—the Sith-blooded woman was maybe even a little taller than her Jedi stood.

Nora looked up at her for a long moment, and then stepped closer, arranging her face into an alluring smile. “Not tonight,” she said, and then turned, moving towards the door. She had what she needed, for now. The playing field was level once more.

She felt Seake’s gaze burn into her back as Vette trotted to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took unusually long for me to get out, I had some personal stuff going on. But a friend helped me get out of the writing rut and back into the saddle. I'm very excited about this story and how engaged people have been!! Thank you all so much for reading, and for the comments and kudos <3 <3 <3
> 
> If you'd like to see some concept art for the Terrible Trio (thanks for the nickname, Tishina, lol!), it's [here](https://sleepswithvillains.tumblr.com/post/640592505034997760/concept-speed-sketch-of-the-trio-of-baras). Rora Seake is a minor NPC that I adopted, but the others are OCs.
> 
> Thank you Tishina and Blueburds for beta-reading, and SunsetofDoom for worldbuilding/brainstorming help! 
> 
> And also thanks to Shakespeare, as I shamelessly steal chapter titles from Hamlet.


	5. Interlude: The Devil Hath Power to Assume a Pleasing Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn's suppressed thoughts from the day haunt him at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so delighted to share this guest chapter written by SunsetofDoom, who has been a big supporter and help for this fic before it even got started. Go check out her [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetOfDoom/pseuds/SunsetOfDoom) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/sunsetofdoom) for more of her outrageously good SWTOR writing and content.
> 
> Content warning: heed the tags on the fic, there are some mentions of canon-typical torture.

Malavai allows himself the small grace of struggling.

His hands are kept clenched on the metal bar by a low electrical current that spasms the muscles and anchors them in place. The Council makes allowances in an Ascetic Knight’s trials, and this is more acceptable to his Order than being bound by his wrists, where the cold metal might touch him where his gloves end. Instead, the thin leather creaks against the metal bar when he swings his weight, his arms tense and straining over his head. Holding him upright. He jerks and wriggles; it’s a logical test of his range of motion, but it makes him feel like a fish caught on a line.

The white walls are the chamber where he took his Trials, combat holograms now gone. He knows this place. He dreamed for years of coming to this place, being purged of weakness.

His soft shoes skid against the ground, tension holding him on the balls of his feet. Moderate Padawans, _normal_ Padawans, are sent to the chambers naked, stripped of any defenses and bared to the Chamber with only their faith. Another allowance is made for the Ascetics; he’s covered, thought not by much. Light, soft clothes that are purposefully loose, wafting past his skin and leaving him cold and vulnerable. The waistband of the pants, the sleeves of the tunic- they’re slightly wrong, rubbing against his skin in unfamiliar ways.

Vague discomfort is not the worst thing that will happen to him in this room.

The Chamber is staffed only by droids. There are holy reasons for this, important reasons. Except he can’t remember his studies, he can’t recall any of the things he was assigned on the sacred traditions, because _there is a hand wrapping around his wrist._

It rushes all the wind out of his body in a panting exhale, like he’s been punched in the gut. Her fingers- she’s warm- her touch spirals bolts of sensation all down his skin and leaves heat pounding through him. It echoes in his bones, like loud noise. It plucks him like a taut string, leaves him humming all over.

But at the same time, he can hear the charging whine, smell the electrical smell of the connection points, the torture droid who was here when he took his Trials. Fear screams its way up his spine, somehow inflaming her touch- _nonononono I don’t want it_ , animal terror pushing him away and pulling him towards at the same time-

Her other hand curls around his throat just as the torture droid connects with his lower back, the electrical current clamping his teeth shut as it burns, burns, burns- he’s dying, no you idiot they don’t kill Padawans during the Trials, a Sith _has her hands on him_ and he’s dying, the desire is eating him alive as much as the pain.

A gasping sound comes from his throat. It’s like his survival tests, journeying the plains for days with no water; everything aching, every sense filed down to a narrow point of _need_.

The torture droid disconnects but the phantom of her hands are still there- are they? He can’t see he can’t see the walls and floor are all white, the air smells like burnt hair and he can’t hear anything but the electrical whine. For days he’s felt like her fingers were tattooed on his wrist, his throat. Does he really feel her touch, or has she simply marked him forever? Is he ever going to be free of this?

The droid beeps, a soft sound that he’s come to dread. The charging whine comes again. He wonders, straining for calm that is always just out of reach, where it will touch him. Where the pain will come from. His wrist burns.

Cold metal prongs against the back of his thigh, the kind of place he can’t imagine being touched by another being, his flesh paper-pale and thin and sensitive. The cold, sterile touch feels like a violation. The electrical current screams through him again and he’s given up on being still, thrashing in place. It’s hot as fire and his muscles twitch and he has no control, none at all, and if he can’t control his body then what’s left? What’s left? What is he?

The pain stops, the droid disconnecting.

His body aches. His arms shake, unable to hold his full weight, and the aftermath of pain is almost worse than the anticipation of it, leaving him weak and sick and helpless.

The Sith’s long nail traces a line across his throat, slicing along his skin with a line of thick hot fire. The pressure and the heat are so deep that he wonders insanely if he’s bleeding, if she’s slit his throat open and he’s gushing blood into her hand, and his hips buck as he screams, breathless and wailing, his cock so hard he thinks he might die of it. Lightheaded, exhausted, he writhes- away or toward he doesn’t know.

The charging whine, and the pain hits him right in the middle of his back, striking the memory of heat where her breasts pressed against him. It feels like a punishment and he throws himself into the pain. He wants to cast himself at the Masters’ feet and sob out his transgressions like he did as a little boy, terrified of falling to Darkness. He wants to take the pain as penance and let it make him whole again. The whole-body memory of taking the whip across his shoulders shudders through him and he gasps, tears in his eyes as he reaches for that feeling of oneness with the Force. That euphoria, instead of being chained into this filthy body that reacts-

Her hot fingers wrap tighter around his wrist, his _bare wrist_ where the glove has failed to protect him, and his cock pulses.

-like a _whore_.

He breaks. Malavai Quinn, Knighted Jedi and former pride of his Order, breaks for her and begs, voice echoing in nonsense babble against the empty walls where he passed his Trials. His filthy skin wants her touch, just wants the heat of her pressed against his back, and he needs the pain back, he begs the droid to shock him again.

Her breath on the back of his neck is warm, and he sobs like a child, torn between need and terror. He’s lost, he’s drowning, he’s alive, he’s on fire. She’s pressed against his back and he’s never felt so disgustingly human. Heat gathers in his hips, thighs clenching together as though that will protect him.

The charging whine registers, barely, in his ears. Shaking, he tries to feebly wiggle away, anticipating pain and feeling pitiful for not wanting it. He wants to go home. He just wants to go home.

Tension winds him tighter and he can feel, oh stars’ grace, he would swear he can _feel_ every muscle in her core working against his back as she pushes up on her toes, as her warm breath huffs out against his spine in exertion, he’s so _aware_ of her body as her warmth inches up his back and presses into his tight shoulders and it sings in him, hips thrusting against his will.

 _Master Jedi_ , she breathes against the shell of his ear, the mockery of his title sending a shameful thrill through him at the same instant that the droid’s probe twists into the thin skin of his hip.

Unbearable sensation floods him, pain and need and fear and shame, warmth and electricity singing in him, wringing something from his sinful flesh that he didn’t even know was there, winding him tighter and tighter until he hits some indescribable threshold and-

Waking, Malavai choked on a strangled noise. Tangled in the unfamiliar sheets, he trembled all over, shocky and cold, drenched in sweat and-

Eugh.

He clenched his eyes shut in the darkness. Humiliation burned across his cheeks, up the shell of his ear (where he could, in fact, still feel the place where she’d breathed against his skin) and halfway down his chest. A grown man, a Knighted Jedi. Soiling his sheets like he was fourteen years old.

The memory of pain twitched his muscles, entire body sore as though he really had been electrocuted. His stomach turned, vividly remembering how much his Trial of the Flesh had hurt, really _hurt_. But that was nothing compared to the revulsion that- that he was still- there were parts of him that were still.... wanting. That unholy desire marking him all the way to his core.

Disgusted and unsympathetic, he tore himself from the bed as though it were an ant’s nest, flinging the sheets off him in disgust. Efficient and still trembling, he stripped the bed with military precision, balled up the offending fabric, and shoved it down the laundry chute, slamming it vengefully into the tiny metal compartment that would send it to be cleaned.

Standing in the cold air, suddenly lacking any frantic movement to keep up, Malavai realized that his pants were still- that he was-

He buried his head in his hands. Alone, freezing cold, unable to see in the darkness, he stood on shaking legs and tried to pull his shattered pieces together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and again, thank you so much Sunset for writing this. Thank you for comments, Sunset will be responding to them, since this chapter is hers! <3


	6. And Thus the Native Hue of Resolution Is Sicklied o'er with the Pale Cast of Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn is a bit worse for wear after a rough night. He and Kira pursue Angral's apprentice and the destruction of the power guard facility. Nora deals with Baras' young upstart rival. Quinn and Kira face down Sadic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks, this chapter was a beast and it took me a while to wrangle it. Thankfully, I had my friends to complain to about it, and they very kindly helped me through it. Big thanks to Tishina and Blueburds for beta-reading and support, and also to SunsetofDoom who really helped me get this chapter back on track and has so many wonderful ideas that she lets me use <3

Kira frowned across the cantina booth at her Master as he listlessly pushed his oatmeal around his bowl. _Is he still upset about last night? Tough shit. Serves him right for prying._ He picked up a spoonful of the thin porridge, but spent so long staring flatly into the space over Kira’s shoulder that his spoon was empty by the time he looked back down at it. He set down the utensil in defeat and sat back in his chair, resting one hand on the table.

_No, he’d be sterner if he was still brooding—he’d make that pinched face, like he does when I’ve done something he disapproves of. This is something else._

“Master, are you alright?” Kira asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

“I’m fine, Padawan,” he said, his voice rough.

“Master,” Kira said, barely containing the urge to roll her eyes, “you look terrible. Sorry, but it’s true. Ever since the Temple ruins, you’ve been acting weird. Are you gonna tell me what happened?”

The man stared evenly at her, unblinking—of course he was going to keep her in the dark. But after a long moment, his posture softened and he sat back against the bench, lowering his head. He remained silent, and Kira’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you think I should know about events that directly affect our missions?” Kira asked, staring him down as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You can barely eat your breakfast, how are we gonna stand a chance against the Power Guards?”

Her Master drew himself upright, swelling with irritation at the question—his eyes were bright once more, his dark eyebrows pulling into their habitual furrow. “Of course I will be able to carry out our mission. You go too far, Padawan. You forget your place.”

Kira smirked, happy to see him looking like himself—or at least, more like himself. If he wasn’t going to share whatever burden he was carrying, she could at least prod him back onto his feet. Even if he was prickly about it. “Sorry, you just had me worried.”

Quinn’s frown deepened and his eyes narrowed. “Your concern is misplaced.”

Kira did roll her eyes that time, but ducked her head so her bangs hid the gesture.

He cleared his throat and took a sip of water, and when he placed the glass down on the cracked, scuffed table, he was her Master again—composed, distant, focused. The other man—the one who looked hunted, _haunted_ —was gone.

“Let’s get moving,” he said, pushing aside his untouched breakfast. “We have a lot of ground to cover to reach the facility.” He seemed more focused, but when Kira reached out with the Force, he was still barricaded inside himself. 

“Master,” she said as she reached forward to grab his arm—and then she let her hand drop back to her side. It was hard to quell the instinct to steady him—to shake some sense into him. They needed to work _together_ —like she and Master Kiwiiks had. There should already have been a training bond, but he was holding back.

He paused, turning to look down at her.

“What is it, Padawan?” he asked, his voice nearly as haggard as his face.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Let’s go.”

  


* * *

  


Quinn spun his lightsaber backwards as the hulking man collapsed, his implants sparking and smoking at the electrical overload. A cry of alarm from his Padawan made him turn, his eyes locking onto his next target—an enormous Rattataki towered over Kira. She swung her yellow blade up at the power guard, but one enormous, pale hand seized her shoulder as they slammed their fist into her gut.

Kira grunted, staggering back, and the engineered soldier raised their fist once more. Quinn reached out his hand and gripped her assailant with the Force, arresting their momentum. He fell on the Rattataki, his jaw clenching as he suppressed an unexpected flash of anger, and the power guard roared as he plunged his blade into their chest. A warning sounded through the Force, clear and sharp and sending a shiver of anticipation through his limbs, and he raised his lightsaber as he spun on his heel to deflect the incoming blaster fire.

When the last guard fell to Kira’s blade, Quinn extinguished his own, clipping the hilt to his belt and dusting off his robes. Kira straightened, brushing her red hair out of her face, and shot him a lopsided grin. She didn’t relish violence, but she was always exhilarated by the fight. His own heart was still racing from the exertion, and he nodded at her as she moved to pick up the datapad clipped to the dead Imperial Captain’s belt.

Quinn scowled as he took in the bodies strewn around them. They had been rendered mindless drones by the power guard procedure—and the worst part was that he couldn’t even truly blame the Imperials for taking advantage of the opening the Republic had left. The project had sounded bad—Var Suthra had been ashamed to speak of it, and rightly so—but the reality was worse. Most of the bodies had implants that were swollen and obviously infected—even if they were volunteers, as claimed, this was gruesome.

“It’s encrypted, of course,” Kira said. “Way beyond either of us. Let’s take it back to Rieekan.”

Quinn nodded, following her to their rented speeders. Even though there was nothing left alive in the facility, a sense of unease followed him—the Force was warning him of something, he was sure of it. He paused, reaching out with his senses into the Force—searching for the source of the disquiet. The Dark Side was present, though distant—but that was hardly surprising, considering that Sadic—their target—was one of Angral’s senior apprentices.

But it was something else that was unsettling him—and suddenly the dread from the morning washed over him, and his legs were shaking again at the memory of the Sith’s soft body pressing into his. _Her, it was her, he knew it_ —

“Master?” Kira said again, waving her hand in front of his face. “Hello? We really need to get back to headquarters.”

“Yes, of course,” he breathed, swinging himself into the seat. 

The hint of her presence was gone, and in its absence he wondered if he had even really felt it. 

  


* * *

  


In the ruin of the SIS headquarters, Kira lifted a tipped-over desk with the Force and settled it back upright.

“That one goes over there, kid,” a gruff voice said, and Kira turned to stare up at an enormous Cathar man. His rust-colored fur was spotted and striped with grey, and he was missing an eye, but her entire body went cold and stiff when she recognized him.

“Jhun,” she said quietly, not wanting to draw her Master’s attention from the agent he was speaking to, “what— _how_ —”

What on earth was a black market information broker doing in the SIS?

“Been a long time, kid. Last time I saw you, you could still fit down a ventilation shaft,” Jhun said, sizing her up.

Kira glanced over at Quinn again, and the Cathar’s one good eye followed her motion.

“Doesn’t know, does he? Thinks you’re a good little Jedi?” Jhun grinned, his yellowed fangs gleaming.

Then a massive paw clapped down on her shoulder, knocking her forward, and his claws dug affectionately into her robes.

“Don’t worry, kid. I won’t tell him your secret, so long as you keep mine. They knew I had some...shady connections, but not exactly _how_ shady.”

Kira went limp with relief and grinned up at the man, who shook her shoulder then released her. Of all the criminals she had run odd jobs for in her years on the streets of Nar Shaddaa, Jhun had been the closest to kind. In fact, once he learned that she had become the protector for her little gang of urchins, he sometimes gave her extra things on top of credits when she returned with whatever item or information he wanted. A few medpacks, extra rations. He’d even given her sweets once. He’d cuffed her with those heavy paws once or twice when she failed on an errand, or took a smart tone with him, but he had never been cruel.

“Come on, help me with these ones over here and we can talk,” he rumbled, jerking his thumb towards a smashed pile of desks and tables. “Put those magic powers to work.”

“It’s not magic,” she said, rolling her eyes as she followed him.

“Sure seems that way to the rest of us,” Jhun grunted, tossing aside a wrecked table. “You look good, kid. Well-fed. The Jedi treating you ok?”

“Yeah,” Kira said, “I’m good, but I can’t say the same for you. You’re going grey, and what happened to your eye? And how did you even end up with the SIS?”

Jhun wheezed with laughter. “It’s a long story. And not nearly as interesting as you’re hoping. But let’s just say the right people saw what I could offer from my...previous work experience.”

Kira used the Force to lift a console that had been blown away from the wall and eased it back into place. 

“So,” Jhun said, “how’d a punk kid like you end up training under an Ascetic Jedi? Are they really as strict as they say?”

Kira glanced at the man, a half-smile on her lips. “Oh he’s strict, alright.” She turned back to her Master, observing as he argued in a low, calm voice with Agent Tander, the Twi’lek man who had found himself in charge after Rieekan’s sudden demise. “But he’s not all bad.”

“Does he, you know,” the Cathar made an odd motion with his hand, like he was slinging a coat over his shoulder.

Kira furrowed her brow. “What?”

“ _You_ know,” Jhun said, grinning conspiratorially and lowering his voice, “does he whip himself?”

Kira snorted, shaking her head at him. “Of course not,” she said, “those are just rumors. No one’s done that for centuries.”

“Are you sure?” the Cathar said, cocking an eyebrow at her, his bright yellow eye glinting with mischief, “cause it’s my job to watch people, and I’ve been watching you two since you got here. Seems like he’s got a titanium rod the size of the Senate Tower up his ass.”

She laughed then, unable to disagree. “You’re not wrong,” she said, shaking her head, “but no. And you might wanna check your sources.”

“My intel is good,” Jhun growled, shaking a clawed finger at her.

“Is it?” Kira said, smirking again. “Send it to me.” Perhaps she’d find some clues about her Master’s strange behavior. _There are questions I can’t ask him, and I’ve already scoured the Holonet for everything that’s there. There are things I need to know. If his upbringing was anything like mine—_

Jhun grinned at her, and a few rapid button presses on his comm unit later, Kira’s comm beeped softly in response.

“Keep in touch, kid,” he said, lowering his voice as Quinn and Tander wrapped up their conversation. “Don’t disappear on me again. You and your little Twi’lek friend were both gone. Didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”

Kira frowned up at him—she hadn’t realized he’d even cared. And she hadn’t thought about Ce’na in years. Not after she’d left without a word.

“I’ll see you around,” she told him, still not entirely knowing how to feel. The one word that she kept thinking was _exposed_ , and she didn’t like it. 

“Come, Padawan,” Quinn called, striding past her and Jhun. “We have our next target—it’s on the other side of the sector.”

Her Master looked at her in surprise when she hopped into the driver’s seat of their transport. He raised one eyebrow.

“I can get us there faster than you can,” Kira said, muscles tense as she waited for his response to her boldness.

He looked as if he were about to argue, his brows furrowing, but then he moved to the other side and slid into the passenger seat.

When she saw her Master pull out his datapad, she glanced over at Jhun, who gave her a wink. Kira felt the corners of her lips curl upward as she lifted the transport into the air.

  


* * *

  


“Wait,” Rathari hissed, raising a gloved hand in the face of Nora’s brandished lightsaber. “Wait. You’ve won—I yield.”

Baras’ spy Dellocon was huddled on his knees, looking small and pathetic as Vette kept her blaster trained on him. But Nora did pity the man—Dellocon wasn’t wrong. He had served Baras loyally for decades, his cover _was_ intact. She couldn’t blame him for trying to save his own skin when her master’s caprice turned against him. 

Nora lowered her blade, but did not extinguish it.

A moment later, her caution proved warranted—she lunged forward, parrying the savage sideswipe Rathari aimed at Dellocon.

“What—” Rathari choked, falling backwards under the blow. “He is a threat to your master—” 

“Stop,” Nora said, “you can’t buy your life with his. You don’t _need_ to.”

Rathari’s brow furrowed, and Dellocon scrambled away from him but remained on his knees.

“You oppose Baras. You see him for the manipulative worm he is,” Nora said, staring down at Rathari. “And now you have someone with all his secrets, willing to give them to you. Or rather, he _was_ willing.” She glanced over at Dellocon, who was shaking, his hands clasped over his head. “Take him into your service and work against Baras—quietly.”

Rathari’s eyes narrowed as an unpleasant smile thinned his lips.

“I should have known,” he said in a low voice as he slowly hauled himself to his feet. “Your methods are unlike your Master’s—you cornered me and then came to face me yourself. He would never be so bold. You’ve been at odds with him from the beginning, haven’t you?”

Vette laughed, and both men glared at her. “Understatement of the century, buddy.”

“You _should_ have known,” Nora said, looking up at Rathari and not bothering to disguise her anger. “Look at all these men who had to die before you would listen to me.” She gestured to the corpses strewn around the room. She’d spared the ones she could, of course, but few had yielded while their master still fought.

Rathari didn’t turn to look at his fallen men—instead his green eyes bored into her. “You’re taking a risk by opposing him this early,” he said, “but it may pay off for you. I see it now. You may be Baras’ end after all. Not I.”

“If you want to live to see that day, I suggest you take Dellocon and make yourselves scarce,” Nora said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You,” she said, turning to the Imperial spy, who flinched away from her attention, “you will need to forge new identities. I can’t imagine a better place to do that than this Hutt-infested cesspit. But see that you forward a functional holofrequency to Vette—I want to be able to call on you, if I ever need you.”

“Of—of course, my lord,” Dellocon said, nodding several times and bowing.

“I trust you can handle faking your own death?” she asked the small man, who nodded once more. “You’re the one who stands to benefit the most from making it convincing.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said, bowing once more, his gratitude radiating off of him.

Nora nodded at him, then turned to Vette.

“Come on, we’ve gotta catch up to the others before they ruin everything,” Nora muttered, swinging up onto her speeder bike as the Twi’lek hopped up in front of her.

“Worried about your Jedi?” Vette asked, one red eye glinting as she grinned at Nora over her shoulder.

“No,” Nora said, but the moment the word left her lips she realized she’d said it a little too quickly. “Come on, let’s go.”  


* * *

  
Quinn released a huff of effort as Sadic’s lightsaber crashed into his, and then dropped into a roll as a flurry of blaster bolts flew through the air where he had just been. Kira sent a power guard flying with a gesture, then a thought from her burst into his perception.

_Master, there are more coming._

He met his Padawan’s eyes briefly—he felt them too. And sure enough, three of the Mark IVs suddenly broke off, heading into the nearest hallway. After a few moments, a figure flew back out, striking the wall and sliding limply to the ground.

And then an enormous beast crashed through the doorway, a second power guard in its jaws.

Sadic paused, staring at the new combatant, and then three figures emerged from behind the towering animal. Quinn assessed them immediately—a tall Sith-blooded woman, a diminutive Rattataki, and a hooded figure with no other identifying markers. The Sith-blooded woman raised one hand and the lumbering beast followed obediently—she was the greatest threat.

“Sadic, how very disappointing,” the woman drawled. “I was hoping that with all these engineered mutants at your disposal, you’d have managed to kill at least _one_ of the Jedi.”

The half-cybernetic Sith released a roar and charged at her, several of his engineered bodyguards in tow, but Quinn’s respite was brief—the Rattataki and the dark-robed figure were closing in. Suddenly the figure was close enough for Quinn to see under the hood. Two golden eyes shone out of a pale face, half-buried beneath long, tangled black hair. When one thin, white arm emerged, pointing towards him, Quinn felt a warning through the Force as a wave of power gathered behind him. He leapt out of the way as a pillar flew free from the wall and through his previous position. The Rattataki leapt at him, her lightsaber pike raised, but Kira stepped in, intercepting the blow and bringing the petite Sith back to the ground.

The growls and snarls of the Red Sith woman’s beast let Quinn know that Sadic was still occupied, so he focused his attention on the two other Sith. The Rattataki was fast, but she was no match for two Jedi—Kira brought her down with a blow to the gut and the leg. She fell, but the dark-robed man shot a blast of dark purple lightning at Quinn— he raised his lightsaber to deflect it. 

The sharp warning through the Force came a moment too late, and Quinn choked on a cry of pain as a power guard’s spiked boot heel came down on the bridge of his foot with brutal force. For a moment he was shocked—he had lost sight of everyone but the Sith—but then he swung his blade upward, cutting the man nearly in half. Quinn shoved the body backward, gasping as the spike pulled out, and then he stumbled backwards as the hooded man came at him again, hands blazing with dark lightning.

Quinn took a deep breath, releasing his pain and weakness into the Force, and he reached out, seizing the man in an invisible grip. He turned to Kira, who had guessed his thoughts—she was already moving towards the man, winding up with her blade.

And the moment the figure turned and his attention shifted to Kira, Quinn slammed him down to the ground. The lightning in the man’s hands died, and he lay still. Quinn looked at Kira and saw that she was clutching her arm, her face drawn and pale. The sleeve of her robe was blackened and burned—she must have caught some of the lightning.

But he had no time to be concerned for her—Sadic’s body flew through the air, striking the wall and sliding down to the floor. Quinn raced towards him, determined to reach him first, to take him alive for information, but the Sith woman seemed to be having the same thought. 

But Sadic raised one twitching hand and pressed a small device. Terrible realization dawned and Quinn pulled up short, as did Kira, and he threw up the best barrier he could as the Sith’s body self-destructed. They were both knocked over, and Quinn let out a low hiss as he landed poorly on his injured foot.

By the time they were standing, the Sith-blooded woman was as well—the Rattataki and the hooded man were both still down, though the Rattataki was dragging herself in their direction. Quinn stared at the Sith—her red eyes were defiant, resolute. She would not back down.

And neither would he. Not when he could end the threat they posed to the galaxy.

He glanced at Kira, who nodded and took a step forward, her yellow blade raised.

And then he froze as something brushed across his consciousness in the Force—something cloying, intoxicating. Something _warm_.

_Her_.

She was coming. She was _close_.

He wasn’t imagining it because Kira stiffened too, as did the Sith-blooded woman, who released a low, rich laugh.

“You’re finished, Jedi,” the woman grinned, her teeth wet with her own blood from the gash above her eyes. “She’s near, and when she gets here—”

_We need to leave_ , he told Kira through the skeleton of the bond that he had permitted to grow. She balked, her face darkening with anger.

_We can do this_.

_We’re leaving. _Now_ , Padawan._

_Fine_ , she snapped, _but we're trashing the console on the way out. No way we're letting this fucked-up project continue._

_For once, we're in agreement,_ he thought as they fled down the corridor.

  


* * *

  


Quinn limped into the medbay and Kira followed him, clutching her injured arm. She’d wanted to wait until their wounds were treated, but the words were burning on the tip of her tongue. She’d been biting them back since his abrupt decision to retreat, just when they were about to defeat their enemies.

“We need to talk about the Sith,” Kira said as she pulled off her outer robe, exposing her burned arm. “You’ve fought—and _defeated_ —more of them in the time I’ve spent with you than many Jedi have in their entire careers.”

Quinn was silent as he gathered supplies from the cabinets, but he shot her an unreadable glance.

“We were gonna stay—we were gonna deal with them _permanently_ , until the Chiss woman came. What’s different about her?”

He hadn’t moved, or made a sound, but the tension in the cab of the transport suddenly intensified. But she couldn’t back down—not if she wanted answers.

“Master, is she _following_ us? Following you?” Kira asked softly as he laid out the kolto spray, bandages, and antibiotics. There was another long moment of silence, and then he finally spoke.

“I—I believe she might be,” he said, almost embarrassed, and his gloved hands clenched at his sides. “She’s after Angral as well. And she seems to take a particular delight in tormenting me.”

Kira’s face hardened, and she tried to keep her voice even. “And you didn’t think that was an important thing for me to know?” She felt badly for him—clearly the Sith had said something or threatened him—but all she could think was how furious he would be with her if she withheld vital mission information from him.

“I’m handling it,” he said, his voice growing more firm. “You are right, I should have informed you, but—I thought I could deal with her on my own.” He raised his hands and reached towards her, and she stilled, her eyes widening in surprise—and then he stopped short, his fingers splaying in the air around her arm. A pale golden glow began to emanate from him and wrap around her blistered and burned skin.

Kira watched as her damaged flesh began to heal under his attention—his gloved hands hovered a few inches away as he moved from her elbow to her upper arm.

“I didn’t know you were a healer,” she said, studying him shrewdly. Another thing she hadn’t known—though she supposed she had no right to be upset that he was keeping secrets from her. She had been worried that he’d realize that she knew the streets of Nar Shaddaa a little _too_ well, but he hadn’t said anything.

“I’m not,” he said lightly, “at least, not officially.”

He lowered his hands, and then used the Force to wind a kolto bandage up her arm and fasten it into place. 

“At the Ascetic Enclave, the healers follow our practices and prohibitions. It’s an art pursued by a select few.”

Kira shrugged herself back into her robe and watched as her Master tugged off his boot, a brief grimace twisting his face. He peeled off the blood-soaked fabric, and Kira shuddered when she saw where his skin had split open on the top of his foot. . The surrounding flesh was swollen and purple, and fresh blood began to dribble onto the steel floor.

“But once I left, I had to improvise. I had learned a little through observation—” his words died in a hiss as the torn flesh began to knit back together. Quinn’s gloved hands shook briefly as his body tensed, and then he relaxed as the swelling began to go down. “And the rest, through trial and error.”

“That’s comforting,” Kira snorted, and he shot her a deadpan look. She smirked at him, and he turned back to his injury. Kira passed him the kolto spray, then watched as he bandaged his discolored foot.

Quinn rested his leg on the medbay bed and sat back, sighing softly.

“Master,” Kira said, moving to lean against the wall—and then she flinched and stepped away. She’d almost forgotten about her arm. _I guess he’s not half-bad at healing after all._ “I’m gonna head to bed. Thanks,” she said, lifting her bandaged limb in his direction.

There was more she wanted to say, of course, more questions she had— but he looked so tired. She turned to leave.

“Padawan,” he said, clearing his throat, “you—you did well today.”

Kira froze, her fingers gripping the doorframe.

“Are you sure you’re not in shock?” she said, popping her head back into the room and raising an eyebrow.

Her Master rolled his eyes and shook his head, and Kira slipped out the door toward the crew quarters, a half-smile on her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, Nora and Quinn will face each other again in the next chapter--and oh _boy_ do I have some things planned aaahhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for leaving comments and kudos <3 <3 <3


End file.
